by Bill Baynes
And Aiko? She’s no foe. If he knows anything in this mixed-up world, he knows that.
They proceed quickly, the boy several steps ahead, and reach Sam’s neighborhood in about ten minutes. Joe turns toward the hotel, but Sam tries to pull him in the other direction.
“Mama!” Joe says. “We’ve got to find your Mama.”
The boy shakes his head and points toward the open-air market. Joe has never been there before.
“The jeep will meet us over there,” Joe insists, pointing toward the room and pretending to steer a vehicle.
Aiko materializes out of the snow swirling around them. She’s frantic, windblown hair everywhere. She holds Sam at arm’s length, shaking him a little, a stricken look on her face, speaking intensely.
Joe doesn’t know what she’s saying, but he hears her baby’s name? Sam gabbles a long reply. He looks scared.
Joe understands enough. The boy lied to him. He hasn’t told his mother about his sister.
He feels like an intruder. She has barely glanced at him. He can see how upset she is, how she grips the boy’s shoulders, how she wipes her tears.
He touches her shoulder and motions toward their home. She looks up like she just noticed him and slowly stands. She keeps an arm around her son.
Wade skids to a stop in front of the hotel.
“Sorry I’m so late,” he says. “Had to go the back way ‘cause of the roads.”
“Got everything? The phone?”
“As ordered, Mr. B,” Wade says, handing Joe a wad of cash. “Ya got a hostage situation here?”
“Afraid so. Let’s go see what we can do.”
Joe piles into the front seat and Sam climbs into the back, next to a stack of blankets. Joe gently stops Aiko from getting in and points to the hotel entrance. She shakes her head. She doesn’t budge.
“She’s not going to wait here,” Joe says.
Wade shrugs. “Not a good idea, but what the hell.”
15
Isamu
They jounce across the potholed streets. Isamu folds Mama into the military jacket Joe gave him to keep her warm, but doesn’t answer her whispered queries. Joe speaks quickly to Wade.
The market is mostly empty. The weather has driven away the vendors, but Kiro sees them coming and ducks inside the warehouse.
They pause outside. Joe signs to the boy: “Tell them to bring the baby.”
Isamu knocks and slips in the door.
In short order, the door reopens. Inside, Ato stands behind Keiko, the girl holding Hana-chan in her arms. He holds a knife to the infant’s throat.
“Oh!” Mama cries, then puts her hand to her mouth, afraid her voice will make the baby struggle.
Joe steps out and takes a step forward, gesturing toward the jeep. “We’ve got what you want.”
None of the gang members responds. Even if they understood the words, the American’s statement wouldn’t make sense to them because they never heard of the ransom.
“What is he saying?” Ato asks Isamu, standing next to him.
“I … I think they brought something for you,” Isamu says. His plan appears to be working.
Joe motions to Wade, who lifts several bundles of blankets from the back of the jeep and stacks them in front of the warehouse. The boys inside the building jostle to see outside.
Joe takes the cash out of his pocket, raises it in the air and points it at the baby.
“They want to make a deal,” says Isamu.
“I’m not stupid, Navy Boy.”
“Think what you can do with all that,” Isamu says.
Ato motions with the knife for Joe to come closer.
Joe shakes his head and points at the infant.
Joe and Ato study each other. The moment lengthens. Mama waits, attentive to Hana-chan‘s every breath.
The second American goes back to the jeep and hoists the backpack containing the portable phone onto the passenger seat. He glances at Joe and winks.
Ato eyes both Americans, the pile of bedding, the military vehicle with the strange equipment, and the money. More than he bargained for. Snow whitens the mound of blankets. Hana-chan begins to cry.
“She’s cold or she’s hungry,” Mama calls to the girl with her child.
“Or she needs a change,” Keiko says, wrinkling her nose and holding the baby away from her body.
“I’ll take her,” Isamu offers, glancing back at Ato.
Ato laughs and pricks Hana-chan on the arm. A tiny trickle of blood begins to flow. Mama gasps.
Very deliberately, first Joe and then the other American reach inside their jackets, remove pistols and train them on Ato. Joe waves the money again.
Isamu watches anxiously. Despite her stink, unexpectedly, he experiences a billow of love for his sister. But he’s the reason she’s at knifepoint. He’s the one who brought her here. He’s supposed to be the man of the house. He’s got to do something.
“Let her go,” he begs. “I’ll do anything you want.”
“Tell the Americans to put down their guns. I’ll trade her for him,” he nods toward Joe. “He’s the one I wanted all along.”
Isamu signs to Joe. He lowers his gun and nods to Wade to do the same. Joe tosses his weapon to Wade, tucks the cash in his pocket, raises his arms, and takes several steps forward.
Takeo glides out the door and forces Joe’s arms behind his back. Ato loosens his grip and lowers the baby to Isamu. The boy hustles her to the jeep.
“Oh my baby, my baby.” Aiko wraps herself around her child, ignoring the odor.
Ato grabs Joe by the shirt and yanks him inside the warehouse, beckoning for Isamu to join them.
There are a dozen other boys scattered around the dim interior. Shafts of sunlight illuminate stacks of boxes. At Ato’s instructions, the boys put Joe in a chair and tie his arms behind his back.
Ato steps forward, reaches into Joe’s side pocket and takes out the cash.
“Helpless! The monster is powerless,” he shouts into the American’s face. “You bastard! You murderer! Ha!”
Consumed by hate, he struts in his triumph.
“How does it feel to be totally at our mercy? Now you know what it was like for us.”
Ato strikes Joe open-handed across the face.
“How does it feel to be defenseless?”
Ato steps back and the other boys come forward. They circle the chair, screaming at the American.
“Monster!”
“Worm!”
“Kuso!”
They spit at him, flick him with their fingers. They threaten him with knives.
Isamu looks away, disgusted and frightened. He doesn’t want this. He wanted the American to stay away from him and his family, but he doesn’t want him hurt, especially after he returned and rescued Hana-chan. He’s battered with conflicting feelings of loathing and horror, shame and gratitude.
Joe takes all the hits, the spit, the knife pricks without a word. It goes on for long minutes. The American looks straight ahead and tries not to react to the insults.
Finally, Takeo kicks the chair over. A bruise blooming on his cheek, Joe mumbles something in a low voice.
Ato shushes his boys. The American keeps repeating the same phrase.
“What’s he saying?” Ato asks Isamu.
“I can’t tell. Untie his hands.”
They sit the chair upright and surround him before they untie one hand. Joe rubs his jaw gingerly. Then he holds an imaginary phone to his ear, points toward the door, and smiles through swollen lips. He does it again.
What does he mean? Ato looks at Isamu.
“A telephone?” Isamu guesses. “Out there?” That backpack the second American had?
A hint of disquiet passes over Ato’s horribly scarred features.
“Kiro,” he says. “Check on those blankets. Go get ‘em.”
Kiro doesn’t want to leave the circle around Joe, but he does as he’s told. He opens the door and a shocked expression pops onto his face.
“Two more jeeps out there,” he says. “Lots of Americans. Lots of guns.”
“Fakku!“ Ato screams, kicking Joe in the side. “Let’s get out of here! Head for the windows in back.”
He leads his gang deep into the big, cluttered building, leaving Isamu to help the American to free his other arm.
16
Joe
There’s no time alone, no place out of the weather. Snow feathers everything, the roof of the jeep, the streets, the blanket Aiko wears over her shoulders and her baby. She won’t let go of Hana-chan. There is no way to embrace with the infant between them, no way to melt into each other.
Still she is radiant. In her relief at having her family whole again, her elation at seeing him, the excitement of what transpired, she shines in her own light.
They stand apart from the others, Sam watching closely, the men from the Chourre turned away. Gently, she touches his purpled cheek.
And Joe has to tell her.
He points to himself. Me. To the other Navy men. We.
He makes waves with his hand. Sail. She blinks against the falling flakes.
He turns his hand over, the sign they developed between them (Was that only yesterday?) for tomorrow.
Me. We. Sail. Tomorrow.
Her gentle smile dissolves, her eyes pool.
He holds his hands open, near tears himself.
As if Joe had hit a switch, her glow gutters and goes out. She makes the tomorrow sign. She points to him, then points away, far away, a stricken look on her face.
Joe nods.
She shakes her head violently, tears flying into the storm. She pushes him. She backs away and slips, almost drops the baby in her arms.
Joe lurches toward her, but she regains her balance and turns her back on him, sobbing silently. Joe comes up behind her, but she steps away from him.
A curtain of cold between them. Pain drifting down.
He looks over at the boy and smiles sadly. Sam glares at him.
Joe gestures over and over: I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
The boy is unmoving in the snow, his hair whitened. A little old man, lost. What will happen to him? Who will take care of the three of them?
Joe is overwhelmed with love, with worry, with indignation at the unfairness. This is their final time together. She is so beautiful. How can he leave her? Why can’t he stay?
But he knows he can’t. Cookie is tugging at his arm.
I’ve got to go, Joe signs. Sorry. He climbs into Cookie’s vehicle.
Wade gently guides Aiko toward his jeep. They depart in different directions and she turns to give Joe a last, bleak look.
On the way back to the docks, Cookie and his men regale Joe with the confusion of getting together for the adventure, the wild hunt all over the ship to grab blankets, the scare when no one could find Doc at first to get the money, the maneuvering to get several men ashore the day before they ship out. It’s all fun to them, just a way to display their affection for the young officer.
“Did you see the look on that kid’s face when he opened the door to that warehouse?” Cookie howls.
“I think he had some second thoughts,” another seaman chuckles.
Joe pastes a smile on his kisser and laughs with the rest of them, but inside he’s the amazing aching man.
“Why didn’t you wait until we got here, Lieutenant?” Cookie asks.
“I was afraid they wouldn’t let the baby go, if they saw all of you,” Joe says. “I figured I had to get that done by myself.”
He hurts pretty much everywhere, his head, his shoulders, his arms, the extremely tender side where he was kicked, his heart.
Financially, he’s out fifty bucks. Ato and his boys got away with the cash, though the men are bringing the blankets back with them.
Emotionally, Joe feels like he’s been pulled inside-out. All he wants to do is sleep, but that’s not going to be for a while.
They skid and swerve onto the piers and clamber aboard the launch that will take them back to the ship and to work. Piles and piles of work.
Joe has so much to do. Everyone has been covering for him. The crypto room is piled with coded communiqués. He hardly has time to think before he submerges in his duties.
He surfaces after dark, bleary and mud-buzzy, and meets Doc in the galley.
“Christ, Binky,” his friend had already heard. “That was so stupid. You could’ve got killed.”
Geez. So much for sympathy. After he helped set up Fuji too. Just a couple days ago.
That time thing again. It’s getting slippery for Joe. His thoughts blur, the now and the then, the here and the there.
Aiko … her head on a pillow …
Aiko … the shape of her leg …
Aiko … her hair brushing his chest …
He falls asleep sitting up, the decoding machine his hard pillow.
He wakes from a dream of Ato and his gang hammering and hammering, trying to break into Aiko’s room. The sound is someone knocking on the door to the crypto room. It’s Wade, returning to ship after snapping a few last shots ashore.
“The kid’s out there,” he tells Joe. “I left the launch for you.”
His bruised face smudged with ink, Joe rubs the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Thanks.”
He can only spare a half hour to see the boy. What does he want? Doesn’t he know he’s leaving today?
It’s cold outside. It seems like it’s always cold in Tokyo. It’s warmer in the middle of the ocean than it is in this shattered city. At least it’s stopped snowing, though the piers are covered in white, the boy’s footprints partially filled in.
“How’s Hana-chan?” Joe approaches and mimes holding a baby. “How’s Mama?”
The boy doesn’t answer. He stands wide-footed, livid, regarding Joe with scorn. His gestures are abrupt, agitated.
He points to Joe, to himself, holds his hands wide. What about me?
Joe shrugs and opens his hands. What do you mean?
Sam repeats the gestures, adds a wave of his arm toward home. What about us?
Joe opens his hands, shakes his head. I’m sorry. He points toward the ship. I have to go there.
The boy insists, opening his arms again, pointing back. He acts offended, as if Joe had done something bad to him. Maybe he had.
Joe shakes his head, points to the ship again. Not my choice, but he has no way to say that to the boy.
Sam points to Joe, to himself, to home, gestures to come on. Come back with me.
I’m sorry.
He thinks of his wife and toddler back in the States. Feels sad, tired. The shiny patch of skin on his jaw stings.
The boy points to himself, then back toward home, then sweeps his arm to the ship. Take us with you.
Joe shakes his head sadly. “I wish I could.” No way to sign that either.
Sam raises opened hands, stomps his foot. Why not?
Joe touches his uniform. He salutes. My obligation.
The boy explodes. He rushes at Joe and pummels him in the belly with both fists.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Joe says, grabbing Sam’s hands.
The boy’s rage subsides like a balloon losing air. He looks away, frees one arm and sweeps it toward the ruins.
“I’m so sorry,” Joe says. “I really am.”
He realizes he’s come to care for the boy. He’ll never forget him, will always compare his own son to him. He has so much he wants to say to him.
I wish I didn’t have to go.
I wish I could stay with your mother.
I wish I could be your father.
I wish, I wish, I wish …
He’s the communications officer for a U.S. naval vessel and yet he can’t even express himself to a child. It’s maddening that he’s can’t do more for him.
The boy’s expression is desolation. He leaves without another word. Joe watches him recede across the blasted blocks and then, in a blink, not be there.
On the way back to the Chourre, Joe knows he can’t leave it that way.
He checks the crypto room. The stack of messages isn’t too bad, nothing that looks urgent.
He takes a few minutes to gather items and fill a canvas sack. He grabs a pair of sturdy high-tops in the smallest size and, because he knows they’ll still be too large, three pairs of Navy-issue socks.
He adds two blankets rolled and tied with twine, meat and bread for a week (no time for sandwiches), some more money, and a few other items.
At the last minute, he decides to throw in more shoes. He puts in his own second pair and begs extras from Doc and Wade.
“Joe …” Doc says. “Don’t do it. You’re not thinking with your head.”
“This is not an ending I can accept,” Joe says.
“We leave at about 1800. Gangplank up about an hour earlier,” Wade says. “If you’re not back in time, you’re in big, big trouble.”
Brig trouble, Joe thinks. As a seaman, not a lieutenant.
“I’ve got better than three hours,” he says.
“It won’t do any good,” Doc says. “It won’t help her.”
“If you saw a burn victim, you wouldn’t turn away, would you?”
Joe ducks and takes their shoes, boards the waiting launch. As soon as he sits down, he begins to doze, but the cold spray keeps waking him up. It seems like every inch of him throbs with low-grade pain.
“Look for me about 1600 hours,” he tells the seaman as he starts across the flattened tracts.
People huddled around small fires watch from their inadequate shelters, a single American tracking through the new snow, hauling a heavy gray bag.
No jeep this time. Just Joe-power. He moves as quickly as he dares, careful not to slip, his thoughts as scattered as the flakes he kicks into the air. What can he do in such a short time? Maybe he could find someone at GHQ who could help … if he had a few more days … maybe he could move the family to some safer section of Tokyo.
If he could, he’d just stay. Resign his commission, throw his old life away. That’s what he feels like doing. But that wouldn’t help them. And he’d be labeled a deserter. He’d be ruined.
Maybe he should get a divorce and come back for them. But that would be too late. Anything could happen to them after he was gone.